


Gone

by TrebleRose89



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrebleRose89/pseuds/TrebleRose89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the person they love most is taken from them, Sherlock and Mary must put aside their grief and work together to hunt down the person responsible. (Post-HLV. Very serious and depressing Tragedy/Angst/Mystery. Do not read if you aren't into that sort of thing! Includes Major Season Three Spoilers, and a MAJOR character death.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its associated characters.
> 
> This story takes place approximately one month after "His Last Vow". 
> 
> If you're looking for something light-hearted or upbeat, turn back now! This story will be very emotional, intense, and tragic. It's my first time writing something like this, so I am really looking forward to it. I have two jobs, so there could be up to a week or more between each new chapter. Apologies in advance for any long hiatuses. But then again, we Sherlock fans are used to waiting by now, aren't we? ;)

_**Prologue** _

As he stood in the darkened alleyway, bathed in the black shadows of the crumbling brick building beside him, there were three things of which John Watson was absolutely certain. First, he had just been shot. Second, his shooter was quickly escaping around the corner ahead. And third, he was going to die.

It had been foolish coming out here, John knew. He’d tried in vain to convince Sherlock of this fact, but when had his friend ever really listened to him? Sherlock was convinced that this was what they were meant to do, and when Sherlock was convinced of something, there was no going back.

The doctor and the detective had spent the past several weeks working with Lestrade, trying fruitlessly to track down James Moriarty once and for all. At first, John wasn’t even entirely convinced that Moriarty was truly alive– after all, he’d blown his own brains out on the roof of St. Bart’s, hadn’t he? How could he possibly have survived? But then again, John had also seen Sherlock fall to his death from the same rooftop over two years ago, and here he was, alive and well. Who’s to say Moriarty couldn’t have pulled off the same thing? He was certainly clever enough – he had already made that perfectly clear long ago.

It was soon after Sherlock had stepped off that plane, reprieved from his exile before it had even begun, that the crimes began popping up all over London. It was much like it always had been – elaborate break-ins with nothing stolen, murders and disappearances with seemingly random victims, cryptic messages and clues left at the crime scenes – it was all a game, just like before.

“He’s playing with you, Sherlock. Just like last time.” John had tried to warn his friend. “You can’t let him win again.”

“But he _didn’t_ win, don’t you see?” Sherlock had insisted. “He _thought_ he did. And I’ll let him think it again, if that’s what it takes. But he’s not getting away this time. Not again.”

The game was certainly on, and its latest move had led them here, to the shadows of this derelict factory in one of London’s quiet suburbs. At first, the place had appeared deserted, and it seemed as though it was just another of Moriarty’s red herrings. But as the pair crept around the side of the building to investigate further, a distant figure awaited them in the shadows.

That was when it happened – two shots, right in the chest, and it was all over.

For a moment, it was as though time were standing still, and John knew he would have to act quickly. He staggered backward, nearly toppling over from the force of the bullets’ impact, but managed to keep his unsteady footing on the soft dirt below. The attacker was already nearly out of sight as John lifted his pistol, trying to get a clear shot. It would be so much easier if his hands were not trembling. He took a few shaky steps forward, pulling the trigger as he did so. The first shot ricocheted off the corner of the building – he could hear the bullet’s impact even from here. The second struck its mark. There was a small cry of pain, and the distant silhouette clutched its right thigh with one hand, but did not halt its hasty retreat.

Seconds later, the figure was gone, and the night was quiet and still once more.

It all happened very quickly then. There was a sudden impact – a hard, blunt blow to John’s back and head. For one wild moment, he thought that someone had begun to attack him from behind, but John soon realized that he had fallen to the cold ground below, his legs no longer strong enough to support him. It felt as though all the air had been knocked from his lungs. He tried to take a deep, calming breath, but found it nearly impossible to do so. His breaths were short, gasping, and extremely uncomfortable. _Of course._ He realized. _He got one of my lungs…_  

That was when the pain came – white-hot and burning, deeper and more excruciating than anything he had ever felt in his life. A deep, guttural cry filled his ears, and it was a moment before John realized that the sound was coming from his own mouth. But there was another sound, too. One that felt both very near and very far away at the same time.

“John! John! Oh God…”

There was a blur of movement to John’s left as Sherlock came into view, crouching down at his side. Sherlock’s mobile phone was already in his pale white hand and his fingers dialed rapidly on the touch keypad.

“We need an ambulance immediately. Someone’s been shot.” The man began reciting the address very quickly to the operator, then repeated it once more for good measure. “Please, hurry.” He implored them.

John thought that Sherlock was looking down at him as he continued speaking, but he struggled to make out any of the words. It was becoming more and more difficult to focus on anything else but the pain. He grit his teeth, failing to suppress another cry of agony that cut through the still night air as a jolt of stabbing pain ripped through him. John closed his eyes, trying again in vain to steady his breathing.

“Stay with me, John, okay? _Please_. Fight it. Stay.” Sherlock’s voice was oddly calm as it broke though, reaching John’s ears at last. He tried to let it fill his mind, to block out the pain. For a moment, it almost worked.

He sensed a slight stirring beside him, and, through his pain, John realized that Sherlock had begun to rise to his feet. Perhaps he hoped to pursue the shooter. Maybe he wanted to search the nearby road for a sign of the ambulance. It didn’t matter – either way, John didn’t want him to go. It was selfish, maybe. But he didn’t want to die alone.

Though it was a struggle, John managed to open his eyes, peering through the now-blurred darkness to find his friend. He reached out feebly toward Sherlock’s arm, trying to pull him back. Instead, he merely batted the sleeve of the man’s jacket weakly. John tried desperately to clutch the fabric and give it a tug, but his fingers refused to cooperate, and his hand fell heavily to the ground once more.

But somehow, he’d understood.

“John?” Sherlock was down on the ground beside him again. “I’m here, John. Just stay with me.” He repeated, his voice more urgent this time.

It wouldn’t be much longer now. Everything was muffled, like he was underwater. He could already feel himself beginning to slip away. Fumbling, John reached out into the darkness, too weak to open his eyes another time. A soft warmth filled his palm as Sherlock’s hand found his.

The calm, soothing voice was gone. “John...” Sherlock’s voice shook slightly as he spoke. “Keep fighting.”

It was getting more and more difficult to form coherent thoughts as the blinding pain filled John’s chest, consuming him. If only he had the strength to find his voice. There was so much he wished he could say.  

He wished he could tell Mary that she was everything to him. That he was sorry for ever doubting her, or judging her for her past mistakes. That, despite all they'd gone through, he wouldn't change one thing. Not one.

He wished he could hold his daughter in his arms, or even look upon her face, just once. He wished he could tell her how much he loved her. How excited he was to be a father. How sorry he was that she would have to grow up without him.

"Take care of them, Sherlock." He'd say. "For me. Can you do that?"

Instead, he used the last of his strength to give his friend’s hand a gentle squeeze. _Thank you for everything. I'm sorry…_ He thought desperately. John hoped that would be enough.

He took a few more gasping breaths, struggling to hold on. But it was no use. That slipping feeling returned, as though something were pulling him, carrying him away. And this time, he let it. The darkness closed in around him at last and, for one perfect moment, everything was silent, everything was still, and the pain was gone.

The last thing he would feel was the comforting warmth of Sherlock’s hand in his. Then, even that was gone.

Only a memory lingered – Mary’s lips, soft and warm against his.

Then it was gone, too.

And so was he.

 


	2. Chapter One

_Bangbangbangbangbang!_

               Sherlock groaned groggily as the loud thudding reached his ears, pulling him rather abruptly from his slumber. He forced open his heavy eyelids, lifting his head just slightly from the couch where he’d slept. His eyes scanned his filthy surroundings for a moment. Several long slivers of sunshine had broken through the heavy curtains, spilling their light into the living room. Judging by their angle, it would have to be… Well, past noon, for sure. His mind was too foggy at the moment to be any more precise than that.

_Bangbangbangbangbang!_

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock threw his head back against the pillows, shielding his eyes from the sun with one long, slender arm as the knocking continued.  _Go away._  He thought wearily, though he remained silent. Whoever it was, they would give up eventually. They always did. Over the past several days, he had lost count of how many times he’d ignored the persistent knocking on his door, or the infernal ringing of his mobile phone.  _You’d think they’d have taken the hint by now…_

_Bangbangbangbangbang!_

“Sherlock Holmes, I swear to God, I will break down this door!” A harsh but muffled cry came through from the other side.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. During the past week, Mrs. Hudson had attempted to check in on him multiple times a day. Molly Hooper had been by almost daily as well. Lestrade’s urgent knocking had come once or twice, and even Mycroft had made an unexpected appearance at his door. But this was the first time Mary Watson had come to call on him. Hers was certainly not the voice he had been expecting to hear.

Sherlock lay motionless on the couch, saying nothing.  _Go away._  He thought yet again, though he feared Mary would not be so easily dissuaded. As usual, he was correct.

“I gave you fair warning.” Mary called again.

_BANG!_

_BANG! BANG!_

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant as the trio of gunshots rang out, causing the floor to tremble beneath him. Several large shards of splintered wood cascaded across the floor as the edge of the door was torn apart by the bullets’ impact.

There was a beat of silence, then a soft, labored grunt as Mary began pushing and kicking at the now-weakened door. On the third hit, it flew open at last, and Sherlock came face-to-face with the first person he had seen in nearly a week.

Mary stood in the doorway, saying nothing as her eyes took in the scene before her. Sherlock followed her gaze as it roved over the old food wrappers, dirty laundry, crumpled papers, used drug paraphernalia, and finally his own tired face. Sherlock knew that Mary was no fool – even if the coffee table were not littered with empty vials and syringes, one look at his face would be all she’d need.

“Really?” Mary’s voice broke through the silence at last. “ _Really,_  Sherlock?” She reached down toward the coffee table, picking up one of the empty syringes in her hand. “John’s been gone for a week. A  _week_.” The syringe was suddenly flying very quickly toward his head as it left Mary’s hand. Sherlock leapt aside and lifted his hands to protect his face, the needle only grazing his sleeve before colliding with the wall behind him.

“What a lovely way to remember your friend.” She continued, her voice dripping with sarcasm and rising with every word. “And what do you suppose John would say if he could see you right now?”

“I don’t know, Mary.” Sherlock replied, just as sarcastically. “Why don’t we ask him?”

Mary took two quick strides toward him, then sent her fist flying toward his face, colliding with his chin with a loud  _smack_.

Sherlock staggered backward and rubbed his sore jaw gently. “Hmm… I suppose that  _would_  be how John would react, wouldn’t it?” He muttered.

“How  _dare_  you.” Mary demanded, her voice shaking with every word.

He shrugged in reply, still irritated about his shattered door and aching chin. “Everyone grieves in different ways.” He said simply, quoting every article on grief he’d ever read. Sherlock gestured toward the syringes on the table. “And this is mine.”

Mary raised her eyebrows at him, scoffing. “You call  _this_ grieving?” She shook her head, the disgust apparent on her face. “This isn’t grieving, Sherlock.” The woman narrowed her eyes, never taking them off Sherlock’s face. “Do you know how I’ve been spending my week? What  _I’ve_ been doing while you’ve locked yourself away up here, getting high as a kite?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I sat  _alone_  in the waiting room at St. Bart’s for  _hours_ on the night it happened. I was terrified. I couldn’t face it on my own. I needed someone there with me. And do you know who I called, Sherlock?” She paused, waiting for a reaction. Again, he said nothing. “Ah, of course you do.” Mary smiled softly at him, though the expression was devoid of any joy or warmth. “But no one answered. The  _nurse_ had to hold my hand when they told me.” She paused, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. It was a moment before she spoke again.

“I went home alone that night. I tried calling you again. All night, I waited for you to call back. But you didn’t.” Mary shook her head as she continued. “Thank God for Molly and Mrs. Hudson. They were both at my door as soon as they’d heard.  _They_  helped me write the obituary.  _They_ helped me plan the funeral. Even your brother sent flowers, Sherlock. Your  _brother_. But not one word from you. Not one.”

Her voice seethed with icy rage, and a slight, sparkling wetness had begun to form in her narrowed eyes. “Do you know what today was?” She paused yet again, as though waiting for a reply. “No, of course you don’t.”

“I do, actually.” Sherlock spoke at last. He walked past her, crossing the room to his desk, where a pile of old newspapers lay. He plucked the top one from the pile before heading back, handing it to her. “It was very nicely written, by the way.” Sherlock muttered as Mary’s eyes scanned the obituary page in her hands.

“ _John is survived by his sister, Harriet Watson; his loving wife, Mary; an unborn daughter; and his longtime friend, Sherlock Holmes.”_  Mary read aloud as a humorless laugh escaped her lips. “Longtime friend…” She repeated, a slight hysterical edge to her voice that grew with every word. “Well, you’ve certainly done a wonderful job living up to that title, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mary…” Sherlock began guiltily. He had never meant to upset her this way, surely she knew that…

“I buried my husband this morning, Sherlock.” The tears had already begun flowing down her cheeks. “And the whole time – the  _whole_ time – I kept telling myself you’d show up. ‘There’s no way he’d let me down like this. No way he’d let  _John_  down.’ That’s what I kept telling myself. Silly, right?”

“Mary listen to me, please –”

“I didn’t know John when he first lost you – or  _thought_ he lost you.” She corrected herself. “I’m not sure how he coped, or if he was ever really able to. But I know that he was  _there_ , Sherlock. He was  _there_. And that’s a Hell of a lot more than anyone can say for you.” Mary spat the words angrily as the tears continued. “Do you remember what you said at our wedding? You promised you’d always be there.” She turned away from him. “Well, you’ve done a bloody good job of that, haven’t you?”

Sherlock said nothing. Each word had struck him like a knife in his chest. She was absolutely right, of course. He’d let her down. He’d let the baby down. And, worst of all, he’d let  _John_  down. What kind of a friend was he? A bloody awful one, it seemed.

He wished he could make Mary understand – John had meant more to him than anyone else ever did, or ever could. Sherlock had never lost anyone so close to him before. It wasn’t something he was ready to accept – maybe he never would be. And running from the pain, well… It was so much easier than having to face it.  

Sherlock’s brow creased in concern as he stared at the woman who stood before him. Mary had begun to break down completely. Her previous anger seemed to have melted away, replaced by pure sorrow. Several loud sobs wracked her entire body as she placed one trembling hand on her large, round stomach.

“Just great… Now I’ve upset the baby.” The words were almost completely lost in her weeping, and it was difficult for Sherlock to make them out. “I guess I’ll leave you to your ‘grieving’.” She hesitated, and for a moment, it seemed as though she were about to speak again. But the next thing he knew, she was headed for the door.

She had nearly reached the now-splintered doorway when Sherlock reached out, grabbing her arm gently. “Mary, wait.” He pulled her toward him, and she did not fight it. Sherlock put his hands over her shoulders gently, leading her back to the couch. “Sit down, please.”

Mary did as she was told and, after a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock took a seat beside the sobbing woman. He patted her shoulder uncertainly as she continued to weep. Sherlock stared at the floor as he did so, unable to look at her. Seeing Mary break down in this way was just too painful. Finally, her cries began to subside after a few short minutes and, as Mary wiped her tears on her sleeve, Sherlock turned to face her again, finally speaking at last.

“Mary,” He began, taking a deep breath. “I am so sorry. _Truly._ ” He said seriously. “I’ve been horribly selfish, and there’s no excuse for it.”

Mary sniffled softly, looking up at him in surprise as he spoke.

“You shouldn’t have had to face this alone. I should have been there. I broke my promise to you… and my promise to John.” His voice was suddenly thick with emotion as he choked out his best friend’s name, and Sherlock found that he had to pause before continuing. Seeing Mary so heartbroken had allowed his own grief to begin to catch up with him. For a moment, his eyes fell upon the empty syringes on the table, and he found himself craving another hit to numb the pain.  _No._ He told himself firmly.  _This has to stop._

Sherlock cleared his throat softly, choking back the sudden lump in his throat. “I was so focused on myself that I never stopped to consider what you must have been feeling. And for that, I apologize.” He continued finally. “I know there’s nothing I can say to make up for my mistake, but please, Mary, know that I never meant to hurt you.”

The woman nodded slowly, but said nothing.

A slow, deep breath escaped Sherlock lips. “Now, I want you to go home,” He said gently, “Pack up whatever you need, and come right back here.”

“What?” Mary found her voice at last.

“You’re staying here, with me.” Sherlock explained.

She shook her head, confused. “Sherlock, I just shot down your door, punched you in the face, and had a complete breakdown in your living room. And now you’re asking me to move in?”

“Just for a while.” His eyes scanned her for a moment. Now that the foggy haze of last night’s high had begun to fade, Sherlock was able to see things much more clearly than before. “You haven’t washed your hair in three days,” He explained. “Your tears have washed away your makeup – revealing the dark circles under your eyes. You haven’t been sleeping. Understandable, of course, but troubling.” He paused for a moment, giving her a second glance. “And you haven’t been eating either, have you?”

Judging by Mary’s expression, he was absolutely right.

“You’re not taking care of yourself.” Sherlock said seriously. “Not good for you, and even worse for the baby. Mary, I know you’re furious with me right now – you have every right to be. But I know John would want me to take care of you… Of both of you.” His eyes flitted to her stomach for a moment. “So I’m going to start.” He gave her a small, sad smile. “Besides, I don’t think John would want you to be alone.”

Mary seemed to be considering his words very carefully, and a few fresh tears had begun to glisten in her eyes as she sat there in silence. Sherlock studied her face closely, trying to gauge her reaction. Finally, she reached her arms out toward him, saying nothing as she pulled him into a tight embrace -- a gesture which, after a moment of uncertainty, Sherlock returned.

“Thank you.” He heard her whisper, and he could tell by her voice that she had begun to cry yet again. “I’m still angry, Sherlock.  _Really_  angry… But thank you.” She repeated.

Mary held him for a few more moments, and Sherlock was immensely grateful when she pulled away at last – he wiped his eyes hastily on his sleeve as she did so, hoping that she did not notice his sudden wave of emotion. “Do you need me to come with you?” He offered as he helped her to her feet.

Mary shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” She assured him. “I won’t be long.”

Sherlock nodded as he watched her head for the door. “I’ll be here.” He said simply.

The woman hesitated in the doorway for a moment. “And Sherlock, for what it’s worth,” she said softly, glancing over her shoulder. “I don’t think he’d want you to be alone either.” Sherlock did not reply.

A few moments later, she was out of sight.  Sherlock flopped heavily back onto the couch, listening as Mary’s footsteps slowly receded down the stairwell. A soft sigh escaped his lips, and he leaned forward, reaching for the crumpled newspaper that lay on the table in front of him. His eyes scanned the black and white newsprint, reading the obituary for what felt like the hundredth time. Even now, it didn’t feel real. It  _couldn’t_  be real. But it was. And now, he realized, he was finally going to have to face it.

He took a deep breath and held his face in his pale white hands as he replayed Mary’s words in his head, over and over. He had been acting like a child, like a coward.  _I’m sorry, John_. Sherlock thought sadly.  _You deserve so much better…_

Sherlock rubbed his tired, wet eyes, pulling himself together at last. Mary would be back soon, and there was still so much to do. He rose to his feet, picking up the wrinkled newspaper as he did so. He folded it gently and crossed to the fireplace, passing the empty spot where John’s chair had once sat. Sherlock tucked the paper gingerly between a pair of old books on the mantle, then hurried off to the kitchen to begin tidying up and preparing for Mary’s return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that chapter! I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.
> 
> I tried to imagine how Sherlock would be dealing with his grief, and then I realized that, well... He wouldn't be. So I decided he'd end up shutting everyone out and going back to the drugs. The rest of the chapter kind of flowed from there.
> 
> Don't worry, by the way -- all this angsty emotional stuff will die down fairly soon as the "mystery"/case-solving aspects come more into play. Of course, this is still a tragedy story, so obviously it will be pretty melancholy overall, but not every chapter will be quite so melodramatic. Haha.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you for all the Kudos! :) Here is the next chapter! I didn't take as much time to edit it as I did with the first two chapters, so if it's not 100% up to par with the first two, I apologize! But I still think it came out pretty well (though dialogue is always challenging, and it was a bit tricky this time too!). Enjoy!

               Mary opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the bright light of the morning sun. She lifted her head slightly and looked around the large bedroom, confused, for a moment, about where she was. It took several seconds before she remembered. Last night had been the third night she had spent at 221B, and she was still not quite accustomed to waking up in a bed that was not her own.

She laid there for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling and trying to remember her dream from the night before. It had been about John, of course – all of her dreams had been, ever since the night he died. But this was the first morning since that terrible night that she did not wake to find herself trembling and crying, still shaken from some horrible nightmare. Whatever the dream had been, it had made her feel happy, and safe. Mary missed feeling that way.

_Good morning, John_. She thought, just as she did every morning. _I miss you._ Mary laid in the silence a while longer, as though waiting for a response. Of course, none came.

Finally, she sat up, yawning heavily as she rubbed her tired, wet eyes. It was a relief to finally be able to sleep through the night. Though, admittedly, it was a bit awkward waking up on the soft, comfortable bed and knowing that Sherlock had spent yet another night on the couch. But he had insisted that she take the bed.

“I’ve practically been living off this sofa already,” He’d told her with a shrug. “And I believe you and the baby need the sleep right now more than I do.”

In truth, Mary was extremely grateful. The couch did not seem particularly appealing, and the alternative… Well, the alternative was staying upstairs, in the room that had once belonged to her husband. Spending the night in the bed that they had shared in their flat had been painful enough, and it was so much easier to have a good night’s sleep in a bed that did not remind her of John.

Mary pulled herself out of bed, slipped on her purple dressing gown, and slid her feet into a comfortable pair of slippers before heading out into the hall and the kitchen beyond. Sherlock was already awake – she could see him before she’d even crossed the threshold. He sat in his usual armchair, his legs crossed beneath him, his eyes closed, and his hands pressed together in front of him as though in prayer. But Mary knew better – he was thinking. Deeply, it seemed. About what, she was not sure, but she knew it would be unwise to disturb him.

She tried to creep silently through the kitchen, but she had barely made it to the counter before Sherlock’s deep voice reached her ears.

“I made breakfast.” He said abruptly, not bothering to open his eyes as he spoke.

Mary glanced around uncertainly for a moment. It didn’t smell like he’d been cooking anything, and there was no food in sight.

“Well, I tried to.” Sherlock amended before Mary could speak. “We were out of eggs. And sausage. And potatoes...”

Mary could not stifle a small laugh. She should have known – they’d had eggs the past two mornings, and she had a feeling there had been no sausages in the refrigerator in the first place. Mary reached for a nearby cabinet, opening the door slowly before Sherlock interrupted yet again.

 “And cereal.” He paused. “Sorry. Haven’t gone shopping in a while.” He explained. “But I found the bread.”

The woman shook her head, amused as her eyes finally found the small plate of toast and jam that lay on the kitchen table beside Sherlock’s microscope. It was strangely touching, actually. Sherlock had been going out of his way to make her comfortable since the first night she spent at Baker Street. He also was making particularly sure that she was eating three times a day. And going to bed before midnight. And staying off her feet, when possible. It was bordering on annoying, actually. Touching, yes. But annoying. Mary could not help but be reminded of how obsessive Sherlock had been when helping to plan her and John’s wedding.

She understood what Sherlock was trying to do, of course. Mary had never really spoken with John about what to do if something were to happen to him, but she had no doubt that he would want her and the baby taken care of. Who better for the task than the man her husband had trusted most in the world? Still, she was fairly certain that this was not quite what he would have had in mind.

After pouring herself a cup from the coffee pot that sat on the counter (decaf, of course – As Sherlock loved to remind her, “Caffeine could be bad for the baby.”), Mary took her mug and plate of toast into the living room to sit with Sherlock. She placed her breakfast on the small end table, then lowered herself gently onto the soft red armchair that had belonged to her husband.

Mary was not entirely certain why Sherlock had returned the chair to its rightful spot. Perhaps the room felt too empty without it. Maybe it reminded him of John. Or maybe he just wanted Mary to have a place to sit. All she knew was that after their fight on the day of John’s funeral, she had returned to Baker Street two hours later to find the flat tidied up considerably, a pot of tea waiting in the kitchen, and John’s chair back in its usual place.

She closed her eyes for a moment as she leaned back against the soft cushions. Mary loved that chair. There was something so comforting about sitting there, imagining all the times John had sat in that same spot. It was silly, maybe, but it helped her feel close to him. Like some bit of his presence still lingered. Sometimes, she would swear she could almost feel it.

Blinking away a few tears, Mary reached over toward her mug, lifting it to her lips and taking a sip of the lukewarm coffee. She watched Sherlock thoughtfully for a few moments. He had not moved a muscle, nor had he made one sound, aside from drawing her attention to his failed attempt at breakfast. Perhaps under different circumstances, she would have been irritated by this. But Mary relished in the quiet calm of having Sherlock as a temporary flatmate.

Giving up on any hope of enjoying her over-burnt toast, Mary rose momentarily from her seat, crossed to the coffee table, and returned to John’s chair with the unread morning paper in her hands. She flicked through its pages idly, not really reading too closely. She was simply looking for something to pass the time. However, as her eyes scanned the local headlines, she felt her heart drop.

“ _Police have no new leads in doctor’s death.”_ It read. The article was only two paragraphs long, but Mary read each word slowly and carefully, desperate for any new information. Of course, there was nothing. Just a brief account of the shooting, and a quote from Lestrade: _“We have no new developments to report at this time, but I can assure everyone that we have our top men on this case, and we will continue working tirelessly until the killer is brought to justice.”_

Mary shook her head slowly as she re-read. _“We have our top men on this case”?_ She glanced up at the silent figure who sat across from her. “No you don’t.” She whispered, not immediately realizing that she had voiced this thought aloud.

Sherlock remained silent and unmoving – perhaps he hadn’t heard her. The woman bit her lip uncertainly for a moment, then spoke again, louder this time. “Sherlock?”

“Mmm?” His eyes remained closed.

She hesitated uncertainly. “Have you, erm… heard anything from Lestrade at all?”

“No. Why?”

“Just wondering…” Mary said nothing for a few moments. Why was this so difficult? “So… you haven’t talked at all?” She asked again.

“Nope.” There was a slight edge of annoyance to Sherlock’s voice as he spoke. He must have sensed the unspoken question in her silence, for he sighed impatiently, then continued. “He stopped by a few times when I was… You know.” He cleared his throat softly. “Called once or twice. Left a voicemail, I think. Not sure. Haven’t listened.”

“Oh.” Mary said simply. She paused again. “I guess… I was sort of hoping he’d talked to you about… About John. Because I’ve been calling him.” She said finally. “Every day. And all he’ll tell me is that they’re working on it.”

There was a beat of silence. “And I’m sure they are.” Sherlock replied after a moment. “Lestrade’s men all knew John. They want to help.”

“Then why haven’t they found anything yet?” Mary asked, her frustration breaking through.

Sherlock opened his eyes at last, sighing softly. “Because this is Moriarty’s work. I don’t know how directly, but I know he’s behind this somehow.” He explained, his voice growing slightly bitter. “And while Lestrade may be the cleverest man in Scotland Yard – I _will_ kill you if you ever tell him I said that, by the way – even he’s no match for Moriarty.”

Mary raised her eyebrows at him. “So there’s no point to it then? This whole investigation is just a lark?”

“Of course. A bunch of incompetent idiots, the lot of them.”

 “Then what are we doing just sitting here?” Mary demanded, her voice rising slightly, though not quite with anger.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“John’s killer is still out there, and we’re just sitting around twiddling our thumbs.” Mary shook her head. “You’ve said it yourself – they can’t do this, Sherlock. There’s only one man I know who’s a match for Moriarty.” She said seriously.

“Well _of course_ I’m going to help.” Sherlock replied, almost surprised. “What do you think I’ve been sitting here doing all morning?”

Mary couldn’t help but laugh at her friend’s foolishness. “You can’t help while you’re hiding away in your silly ‘Mind Palace’ any more than you can help while you’re hiding away in _here_.” She gestured to the room around them. “You need to get out there, do what you do best. I know it will be hard without John, but we can do this.”

“Sorry, ‘ _we’_?”

“You’ll be needing an assistant, won’t you? I think I’ve already proved I’m more than capable.”

Sherlock shook his head, seemingly incredulous. “Mary, you’re seven months pregnant.”

“Still six, technically.” _For a few more days, at least…_ She added mentally. “My husband is dead, Sherlock.” Mary’s voice wavered slightly. “He’s gone. And if I have the chance to help find the bastard who’s responsible, I’m going to take it.”

“Mary…”

“I can handle myself.” She insisted. “I won’t do anything too dangerous. Nothing that could harm the baby. I promise.”

Sherlock said nothing. He simply stared at her, his expression impossible to read.

Mary sighed in resignation. “Look, with or without me, you _have_ to do this. _Please._ Think of me as a client, if that’s what you want. I’m asking you to help find my husband’s killer. Stop them before they hurt anyone else.”

Sherlock remained silent for a long time as Mary watched him, nearly breathless as she awaited his reply. But none came. He simply stood up suddenly and began to leave the room without a word.

“Where are you going?” Mary asked, bewildered.

He paused as he passed by her chair. “Well I can’t exactly walk into Scotland Yard dressed like this, can I? Even I have my limits, Mary.”

“Really?” She beamed at him as a wave of relief washed over her. “Thank you.” She said sincerely.

Sherlock did not immediately reply, but reached down, pushing the small plate of uneaten toast toward her gently. “I’ve just got to pop in the shower. Eat up while I’m gone.”

Mary looked up at him, puzzled. “What’s the rush?” She asked.

“If I’m going to let a pregnant woman risk her life to help solve a case, I should at least make sure she’s properly fed first.”

Mary said nothing, but got to her feet, reaching up around her friend’s neck, and planting a soft kiss on his warm cheek.

Sherlock looked down at her, his lip curling ever-so-slightly into the first real smile Mary had seen on his face since she moved in. “We’ll get him.” He said seriously.

“I know.” She replied. And, looking at Sherlock’s face, she truly believed it.  

He gave her a small nod, then continued on, walking past her toward the bathroom beyond. Sherlock shut the door behind him with a soft _click_ , leaving Mary alone with her thoughts, John’s chair, and the burnt toast.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it seems like Sherlock decided to agree with Mary really quickly, but what I was trying to semi-imply was that Sherlock had already started thinking about helping Lestrade, so Mary's urging was just kind of the final push for him. I tried to make that chapter a little lighter than the first two. This chapter probably most accurately represents the overall "tone" the rest of the story will have. Not quite as doom and gloom as the first two!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading and leaving kudos! I still have yet to receive any reviews/comments on this story (well, on here. I post it on another site too, where I've gotten a couple!). So if anyone feels like leaving a comment, I would appreciate it (even if it's constructive, just don't flame me, please!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! This is the least-depressing chapter yet :P

Lestrade was already waiting for them when Sherlock and Mary arrived at the police station. It was the first time Sherlock had left Baker Street in more than a week, and he could not decide whether he was grateful for the change of scenery, or regretted leaving his flat in the first place. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Now inside, he removed his gloves and fiddled with them uncomfortably in his hands for a moment as he passed beneath the fluorescent lights, feeling the multiple pairs of eyes following him as he went. Mary had called Lestrade to let him know that they were on their way. Apparently, word had not reached the other officers yet. Sherlock avoided each pitying gaze, his frustration rising with every step. He was not accustomed to having others feel sorry for him, and he hated it. Perhaps he should have stayed home after all…

Lestrade stood outside of his office, giving a small nod to the pair as they approached. He hesitated for a moment, seemingly uncomfortable, before stepping forward and giving Mary a quick hug. “It’s good to see you.” He muttered a bit awkwardly.

“You too.” Mary replied softly, smiling gently as she pulled away from him.

Sherlock grimaced inwardly as Lestrade turned to face him. The detective inspector seemed to be teetering on the edge for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Mercifully, he settled on a firm handshake and brief clap on the shoulder. “I was starting to worry.” Lestrade said sincerely. “How are you holding up?”

Sherlock had to bite his tongue, barely holding back a snarky reply. He fought to remind himself that Lestrade was just trying to be a good friend. And friendship was something that, to Sherlock, was in short supply… especially now that John was gone.

Wondering whether his grief had begun to soften him, Sherlock successfully held back from letting a sarcastic retort spill from his lips. “As well as can be expected.” He replied curtly, itching to finally get to the point. “So…” He continued with a deep breath. “Tell us everything you know.”

“Uh, right.” Lestrade replied uncertainly. He turned and entered his office, gesturing for Mary and Sherlock to follow. “Well first off, I’ve just got to say I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you anything, Mary. To be honest, we don’t really have much to go on anyway… I wanted to tell you that at the funeral, but it didn’t seem like the best time…”

“I understand.” Mary said gently as she took a seat in one of the chairs across from Lestrade’s desk. Sherlock remained standing.

Lestrade gave her a small nod, then turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Look, honestly, you probably know just as much as we do. More, actually, since you were there.” He walked around to the other side of his desk, pulling a file up on his computer.

“We’ve got your initial statement,” He began listing off details as his eyes scanned the computer screen. “Description of the shooter – short, small build. Appeared to be masked, bullet wound to the right thigh.” Lestrade glanced up at him. “You already knew all that, obviously.”

Sherlock nodded distractedly, his eyes fixed not on Lestrade, but Mary. He still was not entirely convinced that bringing her along had been a good idea, and he feared that this would be too much for her to handle.  He hoped he would be wrong. “Go on.” Sherlock glanced at the detective inspector for a moment, before turning his gaze back to Mary.

“Right.” Lestrade’s eyes were back on the screen. “Let’s see… Autopsy report – Cause of death: gunshot wound; hemothorax, secondary to punctured lung; blood loss, secondary to hemorrhaging of the pulmonary –”

 _“Ahem.”_ Sherlock pointedly cleared his throat, cutting the man off. Mary’s face had gone very white as Lestrade began rattling off the details of the autopsy, and her fingers were now clenched more tightly to the arms of the chair in which she sat.

Lestrade looked up, puzzled for a moment, but Sherlock could see the understanding dawn in the man’s eyes after one look at Mary’s face. “Sorry.” He muttered, quickly scrolling down the screen. “Okay… Ballistics report – two rounds from a 9 millimeter handgun, Ruger or Beretta, by the looks of it… Ah, here we go.” The man’s eyes lit up hopefully. “Small traces of shooter’s blood found at the scene. No matches found in our database, but at least we’ve got the DNA on file…” He paused. “Oh, and it looks like the shooter was a female.”

“It was a woman?” Mary asked, surprised.

“The blood found at the scene was from a woman, yes.” Lestrade confirmed. He looked up at Sherlock then, almost expectantly.

It was a moment before he replied. “So… that’s it?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the detective inspector.

“Um… yes.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “Ten days of investigation,” He began, not even attempting to conceal his frustration. “And the only thing you can tell us is the sex of the shooter?”

Lestrade shrugged apologetically. “Told you we don’t have much to go on.” He explained. “No witnesses around the neighborhood. No new evidence. We searched the area for days, Sherlock. But we couldn’t find anything.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock pulled his gloves from his pockets, putting them on carefully as he headed for the door. He had no time for such trivial details – there was a lot of work to be done, that much was certain. “Illuminating as always. Thank you.” He smiled with mock cheerfulness, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Are you coming, Mary?” He did not even wait for her to reply as he continued toward the door.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade stood, watching helplessly as the man left the room.

Mary was on her feet as well, and tried to give Lestrade a small smile. “He’s just frustrated.” She muttered. “Thank you, Greg. Iappreciate it.” She said sincerely. Then, with a tiny nod, hurried off to follow Sherlock.

 _Useless, idiotic, inept…_ Sherlock thought bitterly as he headed toward the exit, followed once more by several curious, pitying stares. But though he was silently cursing Lestrade and the rest of the police force, it was truly himself with whom he was most frustrated. He thought back to the night of the shooting. That bullet wound would have had to slow down the shooter, even if the blow was only grazing. If only he’d run after her. Even if she had a car waiting for her (which, it seemed, was very likely), he could have caught up to her easily before she reached the main road. He was sure of it.

But he didn’t pursue her. Sherlock had stayed with his friend. He’d let his own sentiment get in the way – something he promised himself he would never do. And look at what it had cost him. John would have died either way, he should have seen that. And now the killer ran free, thanks to his own foolishness.

“Sherlock.” Mary’s voice called him back to the present. “Sherlock, slow down. Where are you rushing off to?” He slowed his pace ever-so-slightly, allowing the woman to fall in step beside him just as he crossed through the threshold and into the chilly winter air outside Scotland Yard.

“I have to go back there, Mary.” Sherlock spoke very quickly, already headed toward the curb and making to hail a passing cab. “They’ve missed something… They must have.” He muttered distractedly as the cabbie pulled over to the side of the road. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to join me. I can drop you off at the flat, if you’d like.” He opened the car door for her, allowing her to slide inside before him.

“Let’s stop back at Baker Street.” Mary nodded, agreeing. “Then we can take my car.”

Sherlock paused, surprised for a moment, but said nothing as he climbed in beside her. They said nothing on the entire ride, each lost in their own thoughts about the difficult task that lay ahead.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

The afternoon sun hung high in the sky above them as Mary and Sherlock arrived at the parking lot of the abandoned factory. It had been used as some sort of chemical plant years ago, but had since been abandoned for decades. As he stepped out of the car, Sherlock looked up at the boarded windows, crumbling brick foundation, and heavily graffitied walls. The old building looked starkly different in the daylight than it had on the night of the shooting. There was something eerie, almost chilling about the place in the moonlight. Now, it simply appeared sad, and broken.

Mary hesitated for a moment before following Sherlock, stepping from the car’s shadowy interior into the bright sunlight at last. Sherlock knew it would be pointless to waste time investigating the front of the building – he already knew exactly where he needed to go. He walked silently past the nearby chain-link fence that that separated the parking lot from the rest of the property while Mary followed along in his wake. The pair headed around to the left side of the building to the wide alleyway between the main factory and a smaller building that had likely been used for storage.

Sherlock took a few large paces forward, then one side-step to the right, his mind working quickly to replicate the exact scene from the night of the shooting. He glanced around a second time, judging the distance carefully until he was sure he had found it – the exact spot John had been standing when he it had happened.  

For a moment – just one, brief moment – he allowed his emotions to catch up with him. As he glanced down at the pavement below his feet, everything from that night came rushing back to him. He could still smell the metallic twinge of John’s blood in the air; still hear his desperate, gasping breaths and cries of pain; still feel that final, fleeting squeeze of John’s clammy, trembling hand before it went limp and lifeless in his…

Sherlock blinked rapidly against the sudden stinging sensation in the corner of his eyes and swallowed gently against the large lump in his throat. _Not now._ He told himself, closing his eyes and shaking his head rapidly for a moment, brushing off the pain. _Focus._ A deep, calm breath escaped his lips, and his mind finally began to clear.

“So this is where…” Mary’s whisper reached his ears from over his shoulder, breaking through his concentration. He could hear as she tried unsuccessfully to choke back a sob. Sherlock shook his head again, fighting to block her out. She certainly wasn’t helping the situation.

“John stood here…” He muttered to himself, as the scene played out once more before his eyes. Sherlock raised an arm in front of him, pointing two fingers as though he were holding a gun. “He took two shots…” He raced forward several paces, then turned back toward where Mary stood, still crying. This time, he successfully ignored her. “And our shooter was standing here, about… 10 meters away.” Sherlock calculated.

“The first shot hit the building…” He recalled as he reached out with one finger, gently brushing the chipped brick beside him. “And the second…” Sherlock re-positioned himself, trying to mimic the way the fleeing shooter had been standing when the bullet had struck her. _He got her in the thigh._ With one gloved hand, he absent-mindedly tapped his own leg as the thought crossed his mind.

After that, John had went down, and Sherlock’s attention had been pulled away from the attacker. The last he saw of her, she had been clutching her wound and limping around to the back of the building. Sherlock did his best to retrace her steps, rounding the corner as his eyes scanned the pavement, searching for something, _anything_.

That was when he saw it – on the pavement, just beyond the corner of the building, was a small splatter of dried, brownish-red blood. Sherlock crouched down to the ground, examining the stain more closely, when he saw that the splatter continued. In fact, it seemed to form almost a trail, leading along the rear of the building toward the street beyond.

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion as Mary finally appeared at his side, sniffling slightly, but seemingly more composed than she’d been before. “What is it?” She asked, following his gaze to the ground below them. “Is that…?”

He nodded. “Blood splatter. A trail of it, by the looks of things.”

Mary looked up at Sherlock, confused. “How could the police have missed this?” She asked.

“They couldn’t have.” Sherlock replied simply. “And…” He looked at her expectantly.

“And?”

Sherlock sighed. “John managed to get a hit on our shooter, yes. But it was only a grazing wound.”

Mary paused for a moment, thinking. “So…” Her eyes lit up suddenly. “So the wound shouldn’t have been bleeding very much… Certainly not _this_ much.” She gestured toward the splatter beneath them. “So why would it leave a trail like this?”

“It wouldn’t.” He replied. “Come on.”

Without another word, he was on his feet, following the trail of blood down the side of the building toward the main road. Mary followed along behind him, saying nothing as they went. They did not have far to go. The bloody trail curled off to the left briefly before turning off the road, through the soft dirt shoulder, and down a narrow alley between two rundown residential buildings.

The blood stopped right in front of a trio of rusty rubbish bins that leaned against one of the buildings. Sherlock and Mary exchanged a brief look. Just as Mary was about to ask whether it was really such a good idea to look inside, Sherlock was already removing the cover of the first bin. Inside, there was nothing of note – just a bunch of old, discarded food and containers.

In the second, they found something much more interesting. There was a crumpled wad of black fabric, placed very deliberately atop the rest of the rubbish. Sherlock separated the two pieces of cloth gently, discovering them to be a long-sleeved black turtleneck and a pair of black cotton trousers. The right leg had a sizeable hole in the thigh, and the fabric around the tear was darkened with the stain of more blood. _The killer’s clothes?_ Sherlock wondered as he examined the trousers more closely, while Mary did the same with the shirt.

On the turtleneck, Mary found a single strand of hair – long and auburn.  She lifted it carefully, holding it gently between two fingers. “Sherlock, look.” She said.

Sherlock set down the torn trousers, taking the hair from her carefully. His eyes scanned over it for a moment, noting its unusual shine. He gave it a soft tug between his fingers, not enough to break it, but to feel its strength. “Synthetic.” He said after a moment. “It’s from a wig. And a rather cheap one at that.”

With a sigh, he reached down, lifting the trousers a second time and holding them out toward Mary. “And look at this tear.” Sherlock pointed toward the edges of the large hole. “It’s too large, too circular. This can’t be from the bullet wound. Someone’s planted all of this for us to find.” He grumbled in frustration.

Mary furrowed her brow. “So… this is all a fake? But _why_?” Her eyes searched the discarded clothing for a moment. “Wait, what’s this?” She took the trousers from Sherlock’s hands, reaching for a small sliver of white that was protruding from one of its pockets. “It’s a photograph.” She said softly, handing it to him.

Sherlock studied the picture carefully. It was at least ten years old, judging by the slight fading and poor resolution of the shot. It was a portrait of a man in his mid-to-late 40s with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and black spectacles. Though the photo only showed him from the shoulders up, it was clear he was wearing a fine suit. The overly-bright lighting and dull, curtained background indicated that he was standing on a stage of some sort, and, because of the smile on his face and brightly-colored ribbon around his neck, Sherlock concluded that the photo had been taken at some sort of award ceremony.

He gave the man’s face a second look, searching for some sign of familiarity, but determined that he had never seen him before. Sherlock offered the photo to Mary, who seemed to be studying it just as carefully as he had been. “Look familiar?” He asked her.

She narrowed her eyes in concentration, then shook her head sadly. “No… I’ve never seen him before.” Mary bit her lip uncertainly. “Sherlock, what does this all mean?”

He said nothing as the words from one of his last conversations with his best friend seemed to replay in his mind. John was right – it was all part of Moriarty’s game. _“He’s playing with you, Sherlock. Just like last time. You can’t let him win again.”_

Sherlock looked down at the mysterious photograph in his hands, a thousand possibilities suddenly swirling in his mind. _Don’t worry, John_. He thought, wishing his friend could hear him. _I won’t._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm excited that we're finally getting some action in this story hahaha. The next chapter probably won't be up so quickly, but I will try to keep it within the next week or so. 
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
